


Then Your Soul Will Go Too

by randomlyimagine



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Padmé Amidala, College AU, Fae!Padme, Fantasy AU, I know how the first chapter ends but I promise, Modern AU, Multi, Padmé Amidala Lives, Sorcerer!Obi-Wan, basically all Force users are sorcerers some of them just don't know it, but they're all professors or grad students, featuring both Drama and Shenanigans, has no idea he's a sorcerer!Anakin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-03-25 01:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13823499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomlyimagine/pseuds/randomlyimagine
Summary: If Obi-Wan has to ignite his saber, send magic pulsing through to manifest in a beam of brilliant, blue, cutting light, there will be no concealing the not-quite-human nature of one Professor Kenobi. But it is, Obi-Wan is aware, a risk he will take.After all, someone is after Anakin. He has seen the marks of the Fae on Anakin’s soul.Or: Master Sorcerer Obi-Wan and Fae Queen Padmé battle over an oblivious Anakin's soul because neither of them realize that Palpatine's the one trying to steal it. Then things get complicated.





	1. If you walk unwary at night

**Author's Note:**

> This all came about because I listened to too much Alexander James Adams (Celtic-inspired ballads about faeries kidnapping people, mostly) and ended up with a mental image of Obi-Wan and Padmé both trying to steal Anakin's soul (for benevolent reasons). And that led to this.
> 
> Many thanks to the members of the Star Wars Shenanigans Discord for enabling, cheerleading, troubleshooting, and adding some super good ideas, especially Eliyes (ao3: Eliyes), Comet (MissTeaVee), and Kix (sapphirablue) for wanting to hear more and more about this AU. Also huge shoutout to Eliyes for problem-solving some shit with Palpatine and suggesting that hey, maybe the clones didn’t have to be magic (which solved like 4 other problems for me), and figuring out that Cody is Obi-Wan’s TA. And another huge shoutout to Comet for prompting me to figure out where Rex fit into all of this, and pointing out that Obi-Wan was definitely leaving a certain magical artifact all over for Cody to find. Fic and chapter titles are from "Dance in the Circle" by Alexander James Adams. And apologies to anyone who actually goes to Georgetown.
> 
> Enjoy and please comment!!

It is the weekend after the last week of classes at Georgetown University when the University throws its annual holiday party. Only faculty and graduate students are invited, out of deference to the sensibilities of all of the faculty and grad students. The undergraduates, having alcohol-laden parties of variable legality to blow off steam between the end of classes and the beginning of Dead Week, have absolutely no problem with this.

So it is the cold, snowy night of December 10th, just past the border of evening, when something _shifts_ —

Queen Amidala of the Fae, in her human guise as Congressional Policy Advisor Padmé Naberrie, guest of Professor Palpatine officially and a certain graduate student unofficially, feels her body shudder in time with the disturbance and abruptly stops paying attention to the discussion going on around her. The grad students, Anakin and his friend Rex among them, don’t stop bemoaning the lack of professorial openings for recent PhDs, but Padmé instead hears the thundering of the air, of the thin curtain of magic always in the air.

She is a Queen of the Fae, and thus her magic is rooted in Nature and in Place: she can feel the very bricks and beams of the building quake, the dirt and ground many floors below them contract itself in response to the sudden rush of _Darkness_.

Forcing a smile at what she thinks is some political science grad student’s attempt to curry her favor, she excuses herself. It’s graceful, because she has been handling conversations more delicate than this for a very long time, but she pats Anakin on the arm and gives him a more genuine smile to quell his confusion, then makes her way to the door, being sure to turn in the general direction of the bathroom.

She does not notice one Professor Kenobi, for once devoid of his customary equanimity, heading hurriedly toward the other door.

\-------------------------------

When Professor Ben Kenobi feels the stink of Darkness rush through the room, he is on some level prepared for it. He has been expecting—well, not quite this, not the Darkness that feels like a Fallen sorcerer, rotting and burning. But he has been expecting an attack for a week. To have something so overt, he reflects as he makes his excuses to his colleagues and ducks out the backdoor of the hall, is something of a relief.

Before he leaves, he glances quickly around the room, settling just a little as his eyes come to rest on Anakin, happy, oblivious, and surrounded by people with no idea that magic exists. This is lucky: the presence of witnesses will help protect him in the meantime.

Closing the door behind him, Professor Ben Kenobi lets that mantle fall from his shoulders, lets the harmless affect of the completely mundane history professor dissolve. Left behind is Obi-Wan Kenobi, sorcerer and Master of the Jedi Order.

He has no robes with him, and thus neither their magical armor nor their potential for disguise. And sorcerers cast from within: they use no magical artifacts except their armored cloaks and their blades. But the second, thankfully, he has.

Dashing up flight of narrow stone steps after flight of narrow stone steps, tracing the origin point of the wave of Darkness, following it back to the thickest residue, the remnants of the original rush, Obi-Wan reaches into his pocket and grasps his weapon.

It’s length of wood—dark, polished, long enough for both hands to grasp, but well over an inch thick. It is a hilt, not a wand. The only artifact that sorcerers use to physically manifest their magic is the lightsaber: a blade of concentrated magic powerful enough to cut through anything, and one of the few weapons that can destroy creatures of magic.

It fits comfortably in his hand. It always has. If he has to ignite it, send magic pulsing through to manifest in a beam of brilliant, blue, _cutting_ light, there will be no concealing the not-quite-human nature of one Professor Kenobi. But it is, Obi-Wan is aware, a risk he will take.

After all, someone is after Anakin.

He has seen the marks of it on Anakin’s soul.

He has seen the evidence of the Fae in the golden threads gleaming through Anakin’s aura, in the way the talismans and cold iron Obi-Wan left all eventually disappeared from Anakin’s office and apartment. In the way the faint wisps and haze of disintegrating spells, of fading illusions, have hung of the young man he has come to care for.

Obi-Wan may have conflicted feelings about trying to bring Anakin into the fold of the Order, for all someone as powerful and untrained as Anakin _needs_ the protection. But he’ll be damned before he lets anyone steal his best friend’s soul.

\--

What Obi-Wan is not, in fact, prepared for is the sight that greets him when he bursts through the old wooden door and into the room where the Darkness originated.

The room in question is tied for the highest one can go within the confines of the Political Science building. The building itself consists of a 1970s addition jammed with dubious grace onto an old building of gray, hewn stone, one built like a small cathedral. The room in question is, dramatically enough, in one of the four towers attached the more ancient half of the building.

The light inside the room is not on when Obi-Wan enters.

But the expansive Gothic-style windows easily let in enough moonlight for him to see the distorted, glowing shape of a Fae cloaked in their own magic, golden tendrils spinning off them like mists, into the air, sweeping the room to survey it with enchantment as well as with eyes, until—

The obscurement drops.

Padmé Naberrie stands in front of him.

“ _You_ ,” she snarls.

“ _You,_ ” he answers back, tone icy as the depths of winter.

Obi-Wan lifts his hands and ignites his saber.

Even in the meager light, Padmé Naberrie can no longer be mistaken for human. Recognizably herself, yes, still wearing her normal, elegant winter coat, but humans don’t have skin quite that white, don’t have red markings like pigment curling around their faces and hands without any application, don’t have skin that literally shimmers gold from underneath, radiates light in a room just dark enough.

Humans also don’t have the ability to be in six places at once.

“ _How dare you?_ ” Padmé’s voice echoes from the room all around him, coming but not coming from the mouths of the five figures in front of him, glowing and lunging—

Obi-Wan leaps up and back, away from the many angles of the blades, not wanting to risk parrying until he knows which one is real.

With a breath, he half-sinks into the flow of power around him, letting it guide him— _there—_

He lands on the ground and immediately dodges again, this time away from what appears to be nothing.

He feels the whistle of air disturbed by a physical blade.

The real Padmé had not been any of the figures—she’d hidden herself entirely.

He lunges, spearing the empty space with his saber, hoping to hit—

But he feels nothing, not even the slightest token resistance that sabers encounter when they find flesh to cut through.

He can’t sense her, can’t sense any warnings of quiet disturbances in the ambient magic around him. For a Fae to hide her image is easy—but for a creature of magic to hide her presence within magic itself so completely is not. Obi-Wan grimaces; this is as he had feared. He had hoped he was wrong, that whatever Fae was after Anakin was a mere amateur, an opportunist hoping to gain a boost from his power, but—

But between Padmé’s clear skill—he’s met her as Anakin’s girlfriend how many times, he’d never noticed _anything_ , it’s his own negligence that has endangered—

Between Padmé’s clear skill and her presumable alliance with a Fallen sorcerer, the source of the Darkness, the scope of the problem is clearly greater than he had anticipated.

“So you pretended to be Anakin’s girlfriend in order to steal his soul. Pretended to _love_ him. What an original tactic—not cliché at all, especially not coming from a _Fae._ ” Obi-Wan stands in his most flexible guard stance, tense and ready, hoping to provoke whatever has styled itself as Padmé Naberrie into action.

It garners a response, but not quite the type Obi-Wan was looking for. A scoff echoes through the room, coming from everywhere and nowhere. But he can still sense no sign of her—nor of her Dark accomplice.

He dodges another hidden sword, steadfastly ignores the impulse to block instead the blows of the illusions coming from him. They cannot hurt him, no, but even with his ability to sense the real attacks, they are dangerous. If he loses focus, he will lose track of Padmé and her sword, and he will lose the fight.

“And your motives were purely altruistic. Certainly not trying to bring a wild, untrained sorcerer under your organization’s thumb, ready to be _indoctrinated_.”

Obi-Wan forces himself not to react. Anakin needs the protection, and what shelter he can provide to the young man will be better by far than being a prisoner, servant of the Fae forever—

Oh, gods. Especially given Anakin’s past.

“At least this explains how often I felt the traces of spells fading off of him,” Obi-Wan retorts, when he finally manages to speak through his horror. “How much of your time together has been spent with him enthralled, hmm? How often has he even had free will?”

“I would _nev—_ ” Obi-Wan parries the invisible blade coming toward him, distinct from the six illusions lunging along with it.

But before Padmé can finish her sentence, she’s visible again and hanging in the air by her neck, struggling.

“ ** _Stop_** ,” a voice thunders as the door bashes all the way open. Obi-Wan had left it ajar in his shock, but he hadn’t been paying attention, and now—

Now Anakin is standing there, his face screwed up in fury, his eyes glowing amber, and his arm extended in the direction of Padmé’s neck.

Padmé’s mouth is moving, trying to speak, trying to gasp in air, but she clearly can’t.

Padmé, Obi-Wan notices, is glaring at him. Gathering her power for some sort of strike—

But Obi-Wan isn’t behind this. And Padmé…Padmé apparently isn’t either. Even with the Fae’s fondness for elaborate manipulations, this attack would be too unsubtle, too inelegant, and she has already proven powerful enough to not need to resort to it.

“This isn’t me!” Obi-Wan yells before she finishes gathering her power. Whatever she might have been doing cozying up to Anakin, she is not the immediate threat here. He drops the shields around his presence—although not his mind—in an attempt at proof. He is not Dark, and thus Anakin’s Darkness could not be his doing.

Padmé’s eyes sharpen, the kicking of her legs and grasping of her arms still for just a second. They resume the next instant, but by then she has released her gathered power. Which is good, because Obi-Wan would rather not have to fight on two fronts at once. Or worse, three, because Anakin stinks of Darkness and that suggests another party. Namely Anakin's corrupter, the Dark presence that had lured Obi-Wan out in the first place—and at this point, Obi-Wan is almost certain that he was lured.

And maybe, just maybe, Padmé was lured too.

“ _You **liars**_ ,” Anakin grinds out. “You _lied to me_.”

“Let her go, Anakin, ple—” Obi-Wan tries, but he’s cut off.

“It was all a _lie,_ from _both of you_.” Anakin’s gaze is darting wildly between them, but rest longer on Padmé, whose struggles are growing weaker.

“Anakin, it wasn’t—”

“I heard you _admit it_! Both of you were just trying to _manipulate me_ , he was right, I thought you _cared_ but you never did, you just wanted to control me, to _own me_ —”

“Anakin, you are like a brother to me!”

Padmé’s struggles have almost faded, her arms collapsed at her side, her fingers twitching like that’s all she can do.

“ _You are lying, and I will kill you for it!”_

Padmé has now stilled completely. Anakin’s fingers convulse tighter, then his arm jerks to the side, sending Padmé flying through the air and slamming into the floor at a brutal angle.

Anakin looks at his arm for a second almost like he’s surprised—and Obi-Wan would actually bet he is. Probably not at the blow itself, not with the way he radiates a thick, oppressive hate—but perhaps at the direction, or the force. Anakin’s power is leaking out of him, spiking and cracking in upon itself, an untamed mess, cacophonous not just metaphorically but also physically, his power grating against itself until it makes physical noise, the sound of metal scraping on gravel, and endless crackling, and an eerie, discordant hum that echoes against the tightly controlled humming of Obi-Wan’s own blade.

It is an uncontrolled manifestation the likes of which Obi-Wan has never seen.

Anakin brings his other hand forward, and in it Obi-Wan can see the wooden hilt of a lightsaber, built of wood so dark it almost seems to swallow the light around it. With a hiss that sounds like a scream, Anakin has poured so much excess power into it, a crimson blade ignites.

“Anakin, I swear that isn’t what happened,” Obi-Wan pleads. “I was not trying to do anything of the sort, I promise. I don’t want to fight you!”

Anakin hefts his blade higher and snarls. “ _Too bad._ ”

And he lunges forward, blade swinging, uncontrolled, and deadly.


	2. Loose all ties to mortal kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the situation escalates. Chapter title from Alexander James Adams's "Creature of the Wood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm continuing to set records for how fast I'm getting fic up. This is...less than 24 hours between chapters. I'm very impressed with myself tbh. And I already have part of chapter three written, so expect that by Friday night! (It'll come sooner if people leave comments because literally every writer ever is encouraged by those lol)

Obi-Wan blocks, and the timing of it is easy. Anakin’s swing is telegraphed as sloppily as an initiate’s. No, the challenge isn’t that, the challenge is forcing Anakin’s blade away from him, keeping Anakin from plowing right past Obi-Wan’s defenses and forcing Obi-Wan’s saber through his own arm.

Obi-Wan manages, barely. Anakin’s power flares in frustration as his blade is deflected, and the strength of it physically burns against Obi-Wan’s skin.

This is why sorcerers train so long and so hard to get their magic under control. This is why the Jedi Order exists, why they’re all bound to the Order by oath and more.

And no one in the Order has Anakin’s raw strength.

“Anakin, stop!” Obi-Wan yells, but Anakin doesn’t even give him a second to rest, thrusting this time, and Obi-Wan has to use magic to launch himself back once again.

Anakin keeps pressing. He slashes right, left, thrusts forward, aims a dirty blow at Obi-Wan’s knees that forces Obi-Wan’s lightsaber to an odd angle to block. It’s more strategic thought than Obi-Wan had expected with Anakin like this.

Then again, Obi-Wan knows it has long been Anakin’s instinct to lash out wherever he’s most likely to strike a hit. But thankfully, it’s not enough.

Thankfully Anakin has no idea how to use a sword beyond mock-fights with wrapping paper rolls, because as even as a Master Sorcerer, Obi-Wan is having enough trouble taking Anakin down without hurting him. Especially with the constant cacophony in his ear, the acid of Darkness against his skin, the lashing of Anakin’s uncontrolled power against his senses.

Obi-Wan deflects Anakin’s blade once again before shoving Anakin back with a harsh wave of magic—something that, from Anakin’s visible surprise and rage, he might not even have known was possible.

Obi-Wan takes the opportunity to go on the offensive—forces himself to go on the offensive, if he’s being honest. Immediately, he has to bat away several attempts to shove him the way he shoved Anakin. They’re sloppy, but powerful, and each one is harder to divert.

Obi-Wan quickly switches from diverting to puncturing, stabbing out with his own magic to make the attack collapse in on itself as he slashes at Anakin with his lightsaber.

But he fails. Utterly. The sheer force of Anakin’s magic shudders, then resumes its motion undaunted as Obi-Wan’s power rebounds, useless.

The wave hits, and he’s thrown back against the wall, tumbles hard onto the wooden back and then soft cushions of the couch below him. Anakin is advancing. Obi-Wan yanks himself upright, lightsaber coming into a steady guard even before he gets to his feet.

By the time he has, Anakin is there. Obi-Wan blocks again, this blow both more telegraphed and more powerful than any yet.

Obi-Wan is a Master Sorcerer of the Jedi Order. He has been training with a lightsaber since he could be trusted to hold one without burning himself. He is one of the most skilled in saber combat the Order has, one of the best strategists in a fight.

He is too good to not know why he is losing.

He is losing because he is not willing to hurt Anakin.

Against any other wild, untrained agent of the Dark, even with this level of power, Obi-Wan would have made quick work of his opponent. Would have deflected the first, obvious strike in a more restrained gesture, then curved his blade up and around his opponent’s, pushing past their guard to thrust into their chest. Through the heart, for the surest kill.

He did not do that when Anakin attacked. Even after seeing what Anakin has become, even knowing that a Fall is _irrevocable_.

Not twenty minutes ago, he thought Anakin his best friend, his surrogate brother, despite the secrets that lay between them. Now Anakin might as well be dead, this _thing_ composed of sheer _hatred_ has taken his place, and even though Obi-Wan knows that it will kill everything Anakin ever loved, is currently seeing it _try_ , Obi-Wan can’t bring himself to go for the kill.

Obi-Wan can barely bring himself to go on the offensive at all.

And still Anakin is coming for him, saber high above his head, blazing crimson and ready to bear down.

Obi-Wan can see the exact angle at which the blade will descend. Can feel the amount of magic fueling the blow, when he lets his mind be burned in the sensing.

Face grim and soul heavy, Obi-Wan raises his own lightsaber, wondering if he can force himself to drive it through Anakin’s chest.

He must.

He can’t.

He must.

Anakin is closing in—

Then Anakin is gone.

Literally gone—vanished into thin air.

Even more striking—the air in the room is silent and calm. The ambient magic that permeates everything has begun to return to its usual state. Still wounded, to Obi-Wan’s second sight, from the violence and contortions and ruptures Anakin subjected it to. But, somehow, peace has returned.

Anakin is no Fae, to hide himself from sight. And certainly incapable of hiding his magical presence, after…that. No, somehow Anakin is genuinely no longer in the room. No longer within a mile or so, given that Obi-Wan’s efforts to sense him meet with naught.

Slowly letting out his breath, Obi-Wan turns to where Padmé lies. Her body is slack and motionless, limbs draped awkwardly over each other, cheek pressed flat against the floor, the glimmer of her skin dulled to nothing. The tendrils of magic around her are gone, having faded slowly with her struggles into nothingness.

“So, I don’t suppose that you happen to know how the fuck he did that?” Obi-Wan asks.

Padmé’s eyes blink open. They are a dark, burnished gold that seems to have melted in with the brown—not the rancid yellow of the Fallen, but something warm and soothing. The color of honey, or life. “To the magic, the Darkness, or the vanishing?”

Fae cannot die from strangulation. Fae can only die from cold iron or the burn of a lightsaber.

She sits up fast—faster than Obi-Wan can start to answer. At the reminder of the depth of her own magic, he finds himself saying something different than he had intended. “Is there a reason you decided to play dead instead of helping me subdue him?”

 “My boyfriend just tried to kill me,” Padmé answers, tone far too light. “I’m not allowed to lie down on the ground and wallow for a bit?”

Obi-Wan’s look is decidedly unimpressed.

Padmé’s mouth tightens. “I was looking,” she says, eyes sweeping the room in time with her words, “for whoever was actually responsible for the attack. Since it apparently wasn’t you.”

“Looking, or lying in wait?”

“Both.”

There is a chair behind him, Obi-Wan notices. Padmé might still be a threat, he should probably stay on guard, but…he collapses onto the cushion.

He could have used Padmé’s help in the fight, he knows. But he’s also not sure what he would have done if she had killed Anakin herself.

After a long moment, Padmé speaks again. “I felt…a spike of something, as it happened. A rupture.”

“In all _that_?” Anakin’s aura had been nothing but spikes and ruptures. And he had turned all the magic around him into more of the same.

“Yes,” Padmé answers, glance sharp as a knife. “In all that. Right as Anakin vanished, there was something…like a hole was torn in the world.”

“You’re saying that was a summoning.”

“Yes.”

That…Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to make of that. Summonings require much skill and power to execute, especially on someone as powerful as Anakin, especially on someone tearing the fabric of the world itself into shreds and chaos around him. Who would set Anakin on them, give him a lightsaber hilt and a push into the Dark, only to fail to tell him how to kill a Fae, and then summon him back right before Obi-Wan could strike a killing blow?

If the two the were in fact the same person. If the summoner had actually known what was occurring at the moment he summoned Anakin.

Across from him, Padmé stands. Her posture is regal, clearly used to the weight of rule she so clearly possesses, to judge by the band of woven gold now encircling her hair. The circlet is woven like vines, burnished metal oak leaves growing off it, engraved with the most delicate detail.

Padmé is not just Fae, she is a Queen of the Fae. Because Obi-Wan needed more reason to worry.

But also in her posture is a deep, deep weariness. “I didn’t, you know,” she says. “Enthrall him. Not once, not ever. I love him. And if you are here to hurt him, or to manipulate him for the sake of your Order, I will end you right before I hunt him down and save him.”

Obi-Wan is, for once, left without a response.


	3. You'll always follow the voices beneath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't mean to get held up, but the midterms happened, yknow. But the good news is, I have a beta now! An awesome person whom we'll call A and who deserves credit for both the last chapter and this chapter's seamlessness and polish. Also heads up I went back and added a bit to the first chapter in order to make the timeline a bit more cohesive. I was really gonna have this whole thing be summarized in the first 400 words of a chapter, but that...didn't happen. I don't know how, I don't even like writing Palpatine! And yet this is my longest chapter yet. So, enjoy!
> 
> Also, new warning: I have made the decision (and it's been alluded to already) to make Anakin a human trafficking survivor as a reflection of his canon past. I'm trying to do it respectfully as I can, and it is not (and will not be) discussed in any particular detail, but here, Palpatine is a huge dick about it. More details if you skip to the end note, including on how to skip that section.
> 
> Chapter title from "Mordred's Lullaby" by Heather Dale.

Anakin Skywalker’s fall that night is something neither Padmé nor Obi-Wan saw coming. Oh, the general possibility had occurred to them, that down the line, if they didn’t guard him well enough, he might be vulnerable—

But their assumptions, their worst fears? Those very much underestimated the danger. And as for what actually happens that night…

The second that Palpatine drops his concealment, unleashes his power for everyone in the building to sense—although no one further away, he can’t have anyone else interfering—he heads back down to the party and finds Anakin.

Palpatine, a former senator who now teaches one class a semester as a Distinguished Professor at Georgetown, has set his eyes on grander sights than control of the mundane government: control of the magical world.

And luckily for him, he’s long been counted as a mentor by possibly the most powerful sorcerer the world has ever seen.

Anakin is talking to a group of other graduate students, most engineering, like Anakin himself, but a few from the social sciences as well. Luckily, Palpatine knows, Anakin is not particularly close to any of them except for Rex and Cody, two of the pathetic mortals that Anakin is closest to. But the mechanical engineering grad student who often served as co-conspirator to Anakin the aerospace engineer and Kenobi’s damnable TA are preoccupied in a side conversation about something. Thus, pulling Anakin away alone should be easy and relatively inconspicuous.

Thirty seconds later, Anakin is walking out the door with him. It’s the one that Padmé left through, though neither of them notice.

“Actually, my boy, I’m afraid I had something else I wanted to talk to you about. Something quite…delicate,” Palpatine begins, careful to lay a comforting hand on Anakin’s forearm, to simultaneously suggest that he very much needs to be worried, and that Palpatine is the one he should turn to for comfort.

Anakin swallows, but he doesn’t hesitate in asking. He hesitates in almost nothing, actually; it’s one of the things Palpatine is counting on. “Professor, is this about what you told me last week?”

Already, Anakin is tense. His shoulders are too high, the line of them taut and uncomfortable. His steps are too forceful, his limbs rigid and so, so sharp when they move. His face is twisted up with worry, with fear.

Palpatine affects a sympathetic, slightly pained expression as he looks at Anakin. He does not let them stop walking. “Yes, my boy, I am afraid so. I told you at the time that others would wish to use you, to get to you and maybe even your mother, and that some of those agents were circling, but I did not know who or where.” He pauses. “Anakin, this is going to be hard to hear, but I couldn’t not tell you. You _deserve_ to know.”

“Deserve to know what, Professor? Did you—did you find out who is after me?”

Palpatine sighs, heavy and sad. “Yes, Anakin, I did. I don’t know why, but something happened tonight, and two of the agents have revealed themselves. I think they must have found out about each other, and now they’re fighting—over who gets to take control of you.”

Anakin stops in his tracks. “I know you said—but I wouldn’t let anyone, not again.”

Anakin’s ability for dissimulation really is pathetic. Even Palpatine can tell he’s lying to himself, afraid. After all, Anakin knows how easily a person can come under the control of someone else. And Anakin Skywalker, the poor little human trafficking survivor, has never forgotten his own past. His voice practically screams that he doesn’t trust himself to avoid it again.

“I know you wouldn’t, not if you possibly could,” Palpatine says, voice as soothing as he can make it. “And I’m going to keep my promise to you: I’m going to help keep you safe. But Anakin, there are so many things you don’t yet know about magic. The Fae, in particular, they have magic that lets them enthrall the mind of a human. If you ever encounter one, you have to be careful, you have to eliminate them as a threat as fast as you can, because if they have a chance to cast their spells on you, if they have a chance to get their hooks in you, you’ll never get yourself free. You won’t even be able to want to.”

Anakin is reeling, breathless. He looks like he might shatter if he tries to move.

Which is perfect for Palpatine’s purposes, so long as they can keep to his timetable. Queen Amidala and Master Kenobi will have to trace his magic back to the place he revealed it, and that will slow them down, let him and Anakin make up the time. But they don’t have an unlimited amount of it, and his two little chess pieces should be arriving soon.

“Anakin,” Palpatine says, reaching in to put a hand on his arm once again. It is a gesture Palpatine has strategically repeated over the course of the years, at the moments when he has had the most comfort to offer Anakin. Even now, he can feel Anakin rallying under it—but not steadying, not too much. “Anakin, we need to keep moving. This is going to be hard for you, but I really believe you need to see this for yourself, to understand exactly what is happening, exactly how you have been manipulated.”

Anakin nods, and turns to keep walking.

They are almost there. Only one more staircase—the back one, the one no one ever takes, the one that actually serves as a shortcut, if a dingy and cramped and disgusting one.

Halfway up the stairs, Palpatine feels Padmé unwind her mortal guise, reach out with her magic, searching, presumably examining the room for any lingering, identifiable signs of him. Perfect.

There’s a landing at the top of the staircase, and a solid, closed door between it and the hallway. Though the rest of the tower is made of old stone and dignified wood, this service staircase is made of cheap metal and cheaper linoleum, and the door is a grimy metal as well. But all of that is worth putting up with, because the door has a window. One that looks in on the department lounge where Palpatine had revealed himself at a clear, if oblique, angle.

He can feel it the second Anakin sees Padmé—he tenses up psychically even more so than he does physically. On some level, whether he realized it or not, Anakin had still been hoping this was all a dream or a misunderstanding, that the only magic out there was that his beloved mentor had shown him.

And Padmé isn’t even identifiable yet. If the sight of an eerie, illuminated Fae, still cloaked in magic and mists, is enough to unsettle Anakin this deeply, Palpatine can’t wait for what’s about to come next.

“Anakin,” Palpatine says, visibly startling the young boy. He took no effort not to, for once—tonight, he wants Anakin on edge. “Anakin, that is the Fae—and not a normal Fae, but one of their queens. Incredibly powerful, and used to ruling absolutely unquestioned. You _must_ be on guard if you confront her, tonight or hereafter. All she needs is to touch you skin to skin while looking into your eyes, and she can enslave you.”

Anakin says nothing, just continues to stare.

“Anakin, do you still have the hilt I gave you? Have you kept it hidden?”

“I—yes—” Anakin manages, not even looking at Palpatine. Just this once, that’s okay. Let him try to wrap his mind around how powerful and utterly _inhuman_ his newfound enemy looks.

“Do you have it with you?” Of course Anakin has it with him. Palpatine had made sure when he’d first given Anakin the lightsaber hilt a week ago that Anakin was scared enough that he would never be without it. And Anakin has had that whole week to do little but stew.

Still staring out the window, Anakin reaches into the pocket of his jeans—nice enough jeans, but still _jeans_ , to a holiday party, where there were professors to court, honestly Anakin’s fashion sense is something Palpatine will have to fix—and brings out the hilt. It is almost black, as dark as Palpatine could get the wood to go, and the channeling end has a stark, flat surface with a sharp edge. The far end of the hilt comes to a wicked point that could, in a pinch, probably be used to stab someone. It has none of the gentle, rounded curves and light colors and visible woodgrains of the Jedi—no, this is the blade of a Sith.

“I practiced with it, a bit,” Anakin says, his hand clenched around it tight. Guarding it. “When I could. And with lifting things. But I’m not very good yet, I couldn’t make it activate, I’m sorry, Professor—”

“It’s okay, Anakin, it’s okay.” It’s exactly as Palpatine had intended, actually. After all, a Sith’s lightsaber can only be activated with Darkness. “I knew this might happen. It takes the average sorcerer months to manifest a blade, and even with your gifts… Well, I know that you have escaped the Jedi’s brainwashing—and you are so, so lucky they missed you—but as a result you have no formal training, and for that I am sorry. If I had known the threat was so imminent, I would have said something sooner, regardless of my desire to keep you safe.”

At that moment, Master Kenobi walks up the tower’s main staircase, its entrance in perfect view of theirs.

Anakin sucks in a breath. “What’s he doing here,” he asks, moving for the metal bar that will open the door, but Palpatine stops him. “What are you _doing,_ Ben is in _danger,_ I need to stop him—”

“Anakin, please, I fear that not all is as it appears.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Ben’s going to get himself killed, or enslaved by that Fae, I need to save him—”

The glowing, golden mists and tendrils surrounding the Fae flare, then collapse. The next instant Padmé is standing there, and Anakin stumbles back, his whole body curling in on itself in denial.

The instant after that, Master Kenobi ignites his lightsaber.

“No,” Anakin says, frantic, almost begging. Pathetic, but just what Palpatine needs. “No, no, no! There’s no way, they wouldn’t, they’re not—”

He looks at Palpatine, gaze desperate for some sort of explanation. Anything but what he sees. “I wish it weren’t so, Anakin,” Palpatine says, “I am so, so sorry. But this is why I felt I had to show you in person. I knew the truth was too terrible to be believed.”

“Ben—” Anakin says, voice broken, “Padmé—”

He whirls on Palpatine, “You said all the Fae need to enthrall someone is eye contact and skin contact. And if—if _Padmé_ —why hasn’t she done it already? God knows we’ve had that—”

“I regret that I don’t know, Anakin, but I believe…I believe she has been laying groundwork. I have noticed the beginnings of Fae enchantments on you, dissolved them when I could, but how often she has done that, how deeply—I do not know.”

“ _How_?” Now—now, Anakin is just angry.

Anakin turns back to the window, and Amidala is in six places, and she and Kenobi are trying to kill each other.

“Anakin, I hesitate to suggest this,” Palpatine says, his tone just careful enough, “but there is a—shortcut, so to speak. To manifesting the blade. You need to be able to use it to defend yourself.”

Anakin breathes. It does not quiet the wrath emanating from him, nor the sense of betrayal. “What is it?”

“I hate to ask this of you, but it’s merely a formality. Ritualistic. I can call up your magic so that you can use it, but as a sorcerer, I need permission. Due to the way magic works, I need you to give me an oath of loyalty, so magic sees you as under my protection. But I assure you, Anakin, it is only for that.”

Anakin hesitates. Then he swallows and straightens. “What do I need to do?”

Voices echo in from the fight. Kenobi’s tone is accusing and deadly: “So you pretended to be Anakin’s girlfriend in order to steal his soul. Pretended to _love_ him. What an original tactic—not cliché at all, especially not coming from a _Fae._ ”

Anakin pales even further.

He is clearly waiting for a denial. None comes.

“You must kneel,” Palpatine says, and Anakin, uncomfortable and furious, but trusting of Palpatine, always trusting of Palpatine, does. “You must use these words: ‘I hereby swear fealty on my magic, my strength, and my soul.’”

In the next room, Amidala finally deigns to respond to Kenobi’s charge: “And your motives were purely altruistic. Certainly not trying to bring a wild, untrained sorcerer under your organization’s thumb, ready to be _indoctrinated_.”

Anakin snarls, his last hopes of a denial break him, and that fury carries him through the oath. “I hereby swear fealty on my magic, my strength, and my soul.”

For those with magic, oaths of allegiance are more than just words.

For those with magic, to give a formal oath of loyalty is literally to hand over one’s soul.

With vicious triumph, Sidious reaches into Anakin’s soul and dredges up his magic, pulling it quickly and sharply to the surface. Anakin’s mind is screaming, but with long practice, he keeps silent. Anakin’s head is bowed in pain, and out of his _apprentice’s_ sight, Palpatine lets himself grin.

Anakin’s magic continues to come, boiling over, almost surging forward now, at the provocation. And like Anakin, it is so, so angry. Wounded and lashing out and incandescent with fury, it is halfway Dark already, and the Darkness Palpatine injects into Anakin’s soul takes hold easily and entirely.

It all happens in an instant. In the next one, Anakin looks up and calls him “Master.”

Sidious’s grin is as wide and menacing as Anakin’s new Darkness—a presence he is keeping carefully shielded from the fight. No need to take away the element of surprise.

“Try now,” Sidious says. “Ignite the blade.”

Anakin does. His magic surges, screams, _devours_ , and the blade ignites, a crimson as deep and beautiful as blood.

“Good. Now extinguish it—you don’t want to give yourself away. But it will serve your will now, as it always should have.”

Anakin obeys. It’s beautiful, and so is his rage.

“Now go in there, my apprentice, and pay them back for what they have done to you. You _must_ use the lightsaber. Strike the Fae first, before she can enthrall you, and then worry about the sorcerer. He will do whatever he can to manipulate you, but he is the less dire threat.”

As if to underline Sidious’s words, Obi-Wan’s voice calls out again. “At least this explains how often I felt the traces of spells fading off of him. How much of your time together has been spent with him enthralled, hmm? How often has he even had free will?”

It is the perfect spark for the flame of Anakin’s action, and Anakin is bursting out before Sidious can say anything. Initiative is good in an apprentice. Sidious’s chest swells with triumph, with accomplishment, with the knowledge of what will come for the magical world—

Abruptly, his smile fades.

That is not the swell of triumph and vindication.

No, it is the swell of a _summoning_.

Sidious tries to fight it, but he recognized it too late, too caught up in his own power, his heady accomplishments. It already has his hooks in him.

Then Sidious vanishes entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the human trafficking is brought up, Palpatine mocks Anakin's past here, and explicitly frames what he's trying to do to Anakin in a similar way. If you want to avoid that, skip everything from the short paragraph that starts "Anakin stops in his tracks." to "Anakin is reeling, breathless." It's 3 paragraphs, the first one super short. All that really happens is Palpatine is a dick and tries to turn him against Padme and Obi-Wan (surprise surprise).
> 
> Also as alluded to here, Shmi is alive! (And also a survivor of human trafficking, obv.) Because unfridging female characters is what we do in this household.


	4. Pray all ye meet are the gentle Fae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely beta got hit by midterms so I'm uploading this now, will post a revised version in a few days. It's been revised by me once, and she already gave it a general once over, but there might be some slight typo fixes or something in a day or two.
> 
> Chapter title is from Samhain by Alexander James Adams. (Also as a heads up Adams is trans, and transitioned since most of these songs came out but has not changed any of the copyright info, labeling etc. on his old music, so if you're looking for the songs, they'll be easier to find under Heather Alexander. Much as it lowkey pains me as a non-binary person to mention the birth name of a trans person at all. But it's great music and you should check it out.)

Sidious is in the middle of something when he is summoned. Something he has dreamed about for years, something vital to the consummation of his plans. So by the time he arrived at his involuntary destination, he is even more furious than usual.

This fury ends badly for one Yan Dooku, titan of industry, Fallen Jedi, and Sidious’s temporary apprentice—who has carried out the strongest, most effective summoning spell he could find in order to catch his Master by surprise and challenge him for his title.

The battle ends quickly, but not quickly enough for Sidious’s taste. In the end, Dooku’s mutilated body cools on the floor, while Sidious is…reassessing. He had never intended to join Anakin’s fight, to reveal himself to the Jedi or the Fae; his plan had been to supervise and pull Anakin out via summoning at the most strategic moment.

Preferably, that moment would be right after Anakin had killed Amidala, had overwhelmed her with the strength and untamed ferociousness of his power while she refused to attack because—wretched, human-obsessed pacifist that she was—she _loved_ him.

If Amidala wasn’t dead, it rather impeded his plan for her lightsaber-burned corpse to be found in the workplace of one Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The peace between the Fae and the Jedi was still tenuous—in part thanks to Sidious’s careful manipulation—and the death of a Fae Queen at the hands of the very Jedi who had negotiated the current treaty would only undermine it more.

And even better, Kenobi would be at the mercy of his own organization, forced to either take the blame for Amidala’s death or tell them about Anakin’s existence. He clearly _hadn’t_ done the latter already, Sidious knew, since the Jedi would never have tolerated Kenobi maintaining proximity while doing nothing to bring him in. Either way, Sidious won. And whenever Anakin was exposed to the Jedi, which was only a matter of time, they would issue a kill on sight order. As they did with all Darksiders.

But with his unexpected absence, Sidious’s plan was spiraling out of control. Anakin was powerful, but Sidious had left him untrained, and as much as that choice had paid dividends, Anakin would never beat both Amidala and Kenobi in a fight.

Unless they were both even more sentiment-ridden than Sidious thought.

But he can’t risk the loss of his best tool. With an annoyed sigh, Sidious focuses his magic. He had gone through the intensive and time-consuming rituals to prepare a summoning circle earlier; now, he imposes it on the air, laying its pattern into his mind. Quickly he changes the runes for own location with the force of his will, and then sends his magic coursing through it.

Anakin appears out of thin air, saber raised and rearing, charging straight at the far wall.

Sidious is not stupid enough to summon Anakin from mid-battle into a position either near him or facing him.

Anakin’s confusion and startled rage at the interruption of his fight is amusing, at least. He appears uninjured—he must have done better than Sidious had expected.

“What—” Anakin starts to ask.

“I’m so sorry,” Palpatine said, resuming his kindly façade once more. “I was summoned away by a member of the same order as Professor Kenobi. He found out, somehow, that I was a sorcerer who hadn’t pledged allegiance to the Jedi, and he tried to kill me. I feared for you—I know your power, but Kenobi and Padmé have so much more practice. So I reused his own summoning circle to get you to safety.”

Anakin does not appear happy with his decision, but he relents. Which is good enough for Sidious’s purpose. And he’d soon learn not to question his Master’s decisions.

“Are you alright? How was the battle? I notice you are alive and unenthralled, so did you manage to defeat the Fae?”

Anakin’s expression grows haunted at the mention of her, but the fury stays. “Yes,” he said, his eyes blazing amber. “I killed her.”

Sidious forces his smile down. “I am sorry it was necessary. And you used the lightsaber? You did as I told you?”

Anakin swallows and looks at the ground. That is shame Sidious will have to force out of him eventually. But Anakin just nods.

“Good, good.”

Amidala’s body would almost certainly be gone by the time he could make it back, whisked away by Master Kenobi in an attempt to either conceal Anakin’s actions or offer proof to the Jedi Council. With any luck, the corpse would create more problems than solutions.

No, Sidious had certainly lost his chance to make use of Amidala’s corpse to frame Kenobi for her death. More Jedi would soon be on the way.

But if Kenobi was unwise in his next actions, then Sidious could certainly frame him for her disappearance.

And in the meantime… Sidious turns his gaze to Dooku’s body. The wounds to his hands and arms were clearly caused by a lightsaber, but a quick bout of amputation can fix that. And Sidious had some Fae weapons on hand—if slashed against Dooku’s corpse a few times, if stabbed through the fatal injury, they would leave a trail of enchantments on his body and conceal the distinctive burn of a lightsaber.

True, he couldn’t easily blame the Jedi for the death of a Fae Queen. But he could still blame the Fae for the death of a respected former Jedi.

\--

_Padmé is not just Fae, she is a Queen of the Fae. Because Obi-Wan needed more reason to worry._

_But also in her posture is a deep, deep weariness. “I didn’t, you know,” she says. “Enthrall him. Not once, not ever. I love him. And if you are here to hurt him, or to manipulate him for the sake of your Order, I will end you right before I hunt him down and save him.”_

_Obi-Wan is, for once, left without a response._

He grapples with his next words in silence, barely manages not to gape. After everything, _she_ is threatening _him_? A Fae questioning his intentions toward Anakin, as if the Fae have ever done anything good to a human who caught their interest in their collective history—

His hand inches to his saber once more. Padmé’s hands tighten into fists, one clenched around a naked metal blade, suddenly visible. Being seated leaves him at a disadvantage, but if he pushes out with his magic, he can go on the offensive, be out of his seat before she can close with him—

Obi-Wan knows he should at least attempt diplomacy. Knows being a Jedi is about restraint and control.

Dear gods, he doesn’t even want to try. Padmé may not have caused Anakin to attack them tonight, but her overall innocence is vanishingly unlikely.

Before Obi-Wan can rally himself to say something and somehow attempt to avoid a fight he isn’t sure is worth avoiding, Padmé speaks: “If we fight again, I will win.”

There is deadly promise in her voice. Obi-Wan knows his own power, doesn’t know hers, but if she is this confident about it, if she isn’t bluffing…between her skill and his exhaustion, he fears she will keep that promise.

“Then we’d best find reasons not to fight each other,” he says.

Padmé’s eyes narrow a bit, but she responds, “Indeed.” Then, so subtly he doesn’t notice until it’s halfway over, she _shifts_ , and within seconds, she looks perfectly human again. Just Anakin Skywalker’s loving girlfriend, the Congressional policy advisor and completely ordinary mortal. One with an unusually good fashion sense, but a human nonetheless.

It’s enough to confirm something that Obi-Wan has suspected: Padmé’s magic does not lie solely in illusions, nor in the mind control abilities typical of the Fae. No, like most Fae Queens, Padmé can alter her shape physically—not just in the perceptions of her opponents.

It doesn’t really narrow down the question of exactly which queen Obi-Wan is facing, but Padmé speaks again before he can puzzle out anything further: “Regardless, we need to get out of here before any of our…mutual enemies think to return. Continue negotiations somewhere safer.”

She does not name what happened to Anakin. Obi-Wan isn’t sure whether that’s a point against her, or one in her favor. “My office,” he suggests.

Padmé shoots him a vicious scowl. “ _Neutral ground_. And, preferably, not the first place that someone who obviously _knows who we are_ would look.”

“I’ve warded it extensively. It’s both close and secure. No one of magic will be able to enter the building without us being warned.”

“I might as well suggest my Court, then—it would be far more secure than the history department’s offices.”

Obi-Wan tenses at the thought. “Not an option.”

“Then I’m not sure why you think I’ll find your office acceptable,” Padmé replies, features fixed in the most refined sneer Obi-Wan has ever seen. “Earth only knows how you have it warded—for all I know, given your fears about the enchantments on Anakin, you have it specifically set up to trap Fae.”

She’s not actually wrong about that.

“My lightsaber.” Obi-Wan suppresses the urge to swallow. “My office is close, it is secure, and it will give us warning of any foreign magic approaching, no matter how well cloaked. Let us have preliminary negotiations there, and you can hold onto my lightsaber as insurance.”

Padmé does not look happy, but after a moment of consideration she holds out her hand. “Lightsaber first. And only because time is of the essence.”

Telegraphing the move as clearly as he can, Obi-Wan slowly moves his hand to his waist, then unholsters his weapon. He stands up carefully and extends his arm in offering, the manifestation edge of the blade pointed at his own chest.

If Obi-Wan were the one accepting an enemy’s surrendered lightsaber, he’d make sure to retrieve it with magic, rather than putting himself in striking range. But the Fae, for all their abilities, cannot move objects with their minds. So Padmé steps forward and takes the saber from his hand, while Obi-Wan carefully doesn’t move.

“Shall we?” Padmé asks.

\--

The walk over to Obi-Wan’s office is tense and silent. Unfortunately for them both, the history department is on the exact opposite side of campus. Even more unfortunately, it’s snowing.

What could be fortunate or unfortunate is that the campus and the hallways of the history department are completely deserted. Everyone who has bothered to be on campus at this hour is at a holiday party. Or so completely bereft of a life—or desperately behind on finals—as to be permanently holed up in the library.

“First things first,” Obi-Wan says, finally seated behind his own desk, having keyed Padmé through the light, passive set of wards around the edge of the history building, ushered her into his small office, keyed her through the far stronger and more active wards and traps there, and offered her the nicer of the two student seats. It’s not a quick process, letting a powerful Fae into his wards while leaving them still active and operational, but it’s definitely worth the extra time and effort, given the conversation that is to come. “If we are to even think about trusting each other, I need to know who you are. I need your regnant name.”

There had been…hints. Of who, exactly, the Fae prowling around Anakin might be. They had not been encouraging.

The worst of the evidence had suggested Mab, Queen of the Winter Court, one of the two highest and most powerful of the Fae Queens. And by far the more malevolent of the two. Her Court was one of the most dangerous and brutal, known for their fondness for catching human thralls and subjecting them to horrible fates. Pitting them against each other, or even against Fae, to fight to the death was known to be the Winter Court’s favorite bloodsport. Among the many.

The day that Obi-Wan had found a sigil of the Winter Court, enchanted and invisible at the bottom of Anakin’s bag, he had almost grabbed Anakin and run, right there and then.

Playing human for so long isn’t Mab’s style. Declaring her love for a human to mess with that human and trick the sorcerer guarding him might be. But Mab is far from the only malevolent Fae Queen.

Frankly, Obi-Wan dreads hearing Padmé’s answer. But he must hear it, and there is no safer place to do so than his office. A twitch of his magic and he can rain hell down on any intruders.

And he has spent well over a year specifically building traps for a powerful Fae.

As Padmé draws breath to answer, Obi-Wan readies his magic, frames the patterns in his mind of the spells he would need to execute—

“Amidala,” Padmé says. “Queen Amidala of the Naboo Court.”

It takes a moment of mental searching, throughout which Obi-Wan keeps his magic well-primed, before he can place the name. Naboo, he knows, has historically been a relatively benevolent Court. And Amidala—

Amidala, best known for being the youngest queen in ten thousand years. And for being oddly enamored of humans.

He had assumed, when first told so, that the comment was metaphorical.

The Fae are always willing to lie about their identities—and contrary to popular myth, they _can_ lie. But none of them would risk impersonating another queen.

Obi-Wan lets out a small sigh and releases his hold on his magic. For the first time, he can let himself consider the possibility that Padmé—Amidala—has been honest about her intentions, if not about her identity.

 _Oh_ , Obi-Wan thinks. _Thank the gods_.

Padmé smiles thinly. “Glad you’ve decided you don’t need to try and kill me, then. And you are?”

Answering is fair, probably, but Obi-Wan still hesitates. In order to protect their civilian identities—and, well, their _lives_ —members of the Jedi Order never address each other by their legal names, first or last, where any outsiders might hear. Officially, every Jedi operates under the sole name given to them by the Order, or sometimes a sobriquet based on their achievements—hence how he got saddled with “the Negotiator.”

Padmé definitely knows what she’s asking. For him to answer…it’s just not done. Those in the Order know and refer to him by his human first and last name, yes, but it is anathema to expose himself this way, to do anything that might tie Master Obi-Wan to Professor Ben Kenobi.

“The Negotiator,” he tries, voice as smooth as if he couldn’t think of a single reason she might object to the dodge, or a single reason he actually sort of hates the name.

A faint look of surprise leaks through, but just for a moment, and then Padmé looks stern again. “Not good enough.” It would, in fact, be enough for her to figure out his name quite easily, if she doesn’t actually remember it from his role in the last treaty negotiation.

Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose, careful to keep his eyes open.  _If needs must._ “Obi-Wan.”

He supposes that he should just count himself lucky that all of the myths about what the Fae can do with names are, in fact, just myths.

Finally she nods in satisfaction. “Hmm. Master Obi-Wan or Master Kenobi, then?”

“Just Obi-Wan is fine.” He lays his palms flat on his desk and does not glare. “As I’m sure you know, members of the Order refrain from using their last names in front of all outsiders, and I would _greatly_ _appreciate_ your discretion. But I’m aware that Master Obi-Wan sounds awkward, and I don’t expect a queen to refer to me as master of any sort.”

Padmé’s eyebrow raises, but she’s almost starting to smile. “That’s unusually lenient for someone of your Order, Obi-Wan.”

“Is it?” Even he’s not sure if the question is rhetorical.

Padmé leans forward slightly in her chair. “Speaking of which,” she says, “I am aware this is a lot to ask, but would it be possible for you to…fail to mention my human identity when you report to your Council?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sure you know my reputation, Obi-Wan, as rather too fond of humans for a Fae. I have that reputation for a reason. I honestly did not create the identity of Padmé Naberrie with the sole intention of ensnaring Anakin and his power, or whatever nightmares you’ve no doubt conjured. She existed several decades before I met him, in different forms. It is not precisely a secret among the Courts that I spend a large amount of time among mortals, but my human identity has never been revealed. And personally, I would prefer it stay that way.”

“Would it be rude of me to ask why, exactly, you care?”

Padmé looks at him appraisingly, then leans back in her seat, rests her hands on the wooden arms of the chair. She glances around the room before speaking, eyes sweeping over old bookshelves, a burnished silver laptop, stacks of graded papers, and far, far more books than one might reasonably assume would fit in the room. Her glance is pointed, indicative. _All of this_ , it seems to say.

“Mortal and magic, human and Fae—our societies are intertwined, for all those of us with magic often think of ourselves as better. I try to make a point of escaping that delusion, and to help where I can.”

“Hence the politics?”

“Hence the position adjacent to politics. After all,” she says, a genuine good humor in her voice, “it would be inappropriate for someone who can control minds to go into politics, would it not?”

Despite himself, Obi-Wan chuckles. That…yes, that would be quite the incident indeed.

“So, if you haven’t already contacted the Council, or if whatever backup you might have called for before the fight will arrive soon, would it be too much to ask for you to leave me to my life?”

“Well…” Obi-Wan begins, but he’s too obviously hedging.

Padmé narrows her eyes. “ _Have_ you told the Council already?”

“No, no, I haven’t,” Obi-Wan says.

“Can I be there when you do, then? As a Fae, of course, not a human. But I’d be happy to offer any information or confirmation that they might need.”

Obi-Wan scoffs, but it’s mostly good-natured. “You sure you don’t mean so that you will hear if I fail to keep your secret?”

“You are hardly devoid of chances to contact the Council without me knowing. But as I said, I’d be happy to render assistance.”

Now it’s Obi-Wan’s turn to lean forward. He stares into her eyes and says, plainly and clearly, “You want something out of this.”

“Obviously.”

“But you’re not going to tell me what?”

Padmé sighs, rather theatrically. “Information on the Council’s intentions toward Anakin…among other things.”

Obi-Wan’s sigh is far, far more genuine. Seconds pass as he ponders whether he’s about to do something immensely stupid.

“You wanted a reason to trust me?” he asks, eyebrows raised and expression challenging. “Well, here you go: I haven’t contacted the Council at all.”

Padmé, startled, turns her head to look at him from an angle. “You felt a massive surge of Darkness in your own place of work and you didn’t even call for backup?”

He almost wants to laugh, because actually it’s even worse than she assumes. “I didn’t call for backup because I knew that it was likely that, whoever was attacking, they were after Anakin. And the Council has no idea that Anakin exists.”

Rarely does one get to see a Fae Queen rendered speechless. Obi-Wan should probably feel more accomplished at having managed to turn the tables, but in truth, he’s still far too overwhelmed from the events of the night.

Still putting most of his energy into compartmentalizing the memory of his closest friend trying to kill him.

“So,” Obi-Wan asks, “does that count for anything?”

Slowly, Padmé starts to nod.

Then the door bursts open, wood slamming against the bookcases jammed up next to the door frame.

Obi-Wan looks up, his thoughts racing at the thought of another confrontation, hand dashing to his saber hilt, not processing the inhumanly fast turn of Padmé in her chair or who, exactly, is at the door. He can only frantically muster to face the next threat.

But Obi-Wan is far, far too well-trained to draw his lightsaber in panic. Or without having assessed his opponent.

Abruptly, he comes back to himself enough to realize that the man now standing in his office—panting hard, eyes darting back and forth, muscles straining with suppressed motion, expression more twisted than Obi-Wan has ever seen it—is none other than Rex.

“Professor Kenobi,” Rex forces out between his pants, “can I speak to you?” His eyes dart to Padmé, and he swallows. “In private?”

\--

As soon as Anakin has been handled, Sidious takes stock. His plans are plans are almost in order, so close to glorious realization—but with the loss of Dooku, he has one less person to carry them out. And he certainly isn’t dragging Dooku’s body around himself.

Luckily, he has a backup plan. Even better: one that will get him intelligence on Kenobi, maybe even make a decent trap, all while serving as reassurance to Anakin that he is on the right side, that Kenobi did betray him and all humanity along with him.

It’s late, but a return to Georgetown is quick—his lair, the rented brownstone that Dooku had dragged him back to, is only a few blocks from campus.

With a smirk, Sidious slips himself through the wards surrounding the history building. They’re weak, passive things, all the worst tendencies of the Light, and all he has to do is pull his magic back inside his skin to slip through unnoticed. Affecting the most harmless, genial-old-man smile that he can, Sidious knocks on the office door in front of him. It’s quickly opened by a man cursing as he tries to prevent the stack of books piled high next to the door from tipping over yet again.

“Ah, Cody. Just the man I was looking for.” From his pocket, Sidious pulls out a black amulet, whispers the corresponding enchantment. The air writhes at the very sound.

Cody freezes the second the incantation begins. He cannot move. He cannot even try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN
> 
> Also from here on out Rex and Cody are actually like...in the fic. So that's nice.
> 
> And I promise I'm not actually TRYING to end to end all my chapters on cliffhangers, it just happens


	5. From 'neath the faerie hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Changeling Child" by Heather Dale. Yes, I am a little embarrassed I didn't use a barrow, but in my defense, this is set in the middle of DC.
> 
> Also, for the sake of getting chapters up/incentivizing myself to keep writing, I'm mostly uploading chapters with light edits and then putting in more complete edits either a few days later when my beta gets back to me, or when the next chapter goes up. I know this is a weird pattern, but it's what works. Especially after the accidental three-week delay brought on by classes/traveling/being sick. It has been edited by my beta (all the thanks to my beta!), but a few more adjustments may be forthcoming this weekend. Unusually in-depth edits for chapter 4 are also now up.
> 
> But now to the story!

_Abruptly, he comes back to himself enough to realize that the man now standing in his office—panting hard, eyes darting back and forth, muscles straining with suppressed motion, expression more twisted than Obi-Wan has ever seen it—is none other than Rex._

_“Professor Kenobi,” Rex forces out between his pants, “can I speak to you?” His eyes dart to Padmé, and he swallows. “In private?”_

“Rex,” Obi-Wan says, intensely thankful that Padmé still looks human, “is something wrong?”

Rex’s face…contorts. “Yeah. Very, very wrong. But that’s a conversation that I’d rather have in private, if that’s okay.”

“Rex, I definitely do want to help, but I’m afraid that something…I’m dealing with a bit of a family emergency at the moment. I hate to ask instead of offering to help, but unless it’s urgent—"

“My brother was just kidnapped.”

Padmé gasps from her chair, and Obi-Wan feels something in him just give. Feels the hollowness inside him grow.

Because losing one of his dearest friends wasn’t enough for one day.

“I am so, so sorry, Rex,” Obi-Wan begins. “Of course I’ll help however I can. Have you called the police? And—can I ask if you know how it happened?”

But Rex is staring at Padmé. After a moment he turns to back Obi-Wan, and his eyes narrow, his chin coming up and his shoulders squaring. “I have an idea about how it happened. And I can’t call the police.” His jaw clenches, then unclenches, and he continues, “I’m coming to you because we need to have a private conversation about that weird polished stick you keep leaving in Cody’s office, and what he’s seen you do with it.”

Padmé makes a startled noise and Rex’s eyes dart up, seemingly mentally reviewing his words. “Not—not like that, uh, it’s something—”

“Actually,” Padmé says, once again smooth as water, “I know exactly what you’re talking about. And I think that, given the timing, this conversation should be a bit less private after all. Wouldn’t you say so, Professor Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan, meanwhile, is gaping at Rex. As subtly as he can, but still gaping. “Well. That’s.” It’s truly, deeply unfair that he has to deal with this night sober. “I’ve never left it in his office.”

Rex just looks at him askance. “Professor, you leave it there on a weekly basis.”

It’s not that Obi-Wan thinks that Rex is lying, it’s just that the conversation has rather escaped his control. “I would think I would remember having to retrieve it?” That wasn’t actually meant to be a question.

Rex snorts. “Yeah, well, he returns it to your office every time he finds it.” He falters for just a second, then says, “Just to make sure that we’re on the same page here, Cody never gave me the details, said it wasn’t his secret to tell, but he…alluded to some things. After I saw Anakin levitate some drone parts over to his desk without noticing. So I hope that’s something we’re all,” he glances at Padmé again, “on board with being a thing that happened.”

Padmé just smiles and makes a noise of affirmation, then turns to look at Obi-Wan. “I honestly can’t believe I never figured you out.”

Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Nope,” Padmé says, her smile even larger, “I am definitely never going to let you live this down. So much for the vaunted restraint and subtlety of the Jedi Order.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t deign to reply. Instead Rex ends up turning to Padmé. “So, I guess you do know what’s going on already?”

Padmé flashes inhuman again and Rex stumbles back a step. Padmé’s smile is gentle, but…uncanny. Blood red. “Indeed.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Long story short, Padmé is a faerie queen named Amidala—think less Tinkerbell and more Tam Lin.”

Rex blinks. “Didn’t Tinkerbell try to kill Wendy?”

“Yes, do ignore him. I promise I’ve never killed a human.”

“I said _less_ Tinkerbell. And forgive me for being a professor of history, not English. But on a far more important note, Rex, can you tell me what happened to Cody? Did you see someone grab him?”

Rex’s gaze moves to the floor, to a once-again-human Padmé, and back to Obi-Wan. “Not,” he begins, “not exactly. I don’t know much about what’s going on, besides that magic exists and both you and Anakin have it and are shit at hiding it—”

Obi-Wan frowns.

“—and that his girlfriend is apparently a queen named Amidala.”

“Padmé, Rex, unless we’re in public and I’m visibly Fae.”

“Right. So Padmé’s not human— Oh. Uh, Professor, are _you_ human?”

That gets a sigh. “Yes. I’m a sorcerer, and so is Anakin. And Rex, I have _told_ you to stop calling me ‘Professor’ outside of a classroom setting. Actually, call me Ben if we’re in public, but otherwise feel free to call me Obi-Wan.”

“Which is…your name?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Right. So I don’t know what you’re assuming happened, but I didn’t come here because I thought you could help find—well, I did. But—look. I don’t know how magic works. I don’t know if mind control is a thing you can do. But I just ran into Cody on the way out of the building. His eyes were kinda…glowing. I told him I was trying to find you and Anakin, was gonna ask if he knew where they were. And he cut me off to say that if I interfered with his ‘mission,’ he’d kill me.”

And somehow, the situation is even worse than “kidnapped.” “He said that when you asked where Anakin was?” Obi-Wan asks, dreading the answer.

“Yeah,” Rex says, mouth still taut. “He cut me off right as I finished saying your name.”

“Well,” Padmé responds after a long moment of horror-filled silence, “I think we all need to catch each other up.”

\--

“Absolutely not.”

“Obi-Wan—”

“The answer is still no, Amidala.”

“ _Padmé_.”

“You do realize that referring to you by a human name won’t make me forget what you’re asking of me.”

“By the Triple Goddess, Obi-Wan, I have promised you safe passage—”

“I’m afraid I’d still be more comfortable—”

“If I was going to harm you, Obi-Wan, I would have punished you for the disrespect you’re showing by constantly interrupting me.”

Obi-Wan’s spine can’t straighten any further, but it does stiffen. “Ah, so now the threats begin.”

“It wasn’t—” Padmé exhales forcefully. “It wasn’t a threat.”

“It kinda was,” Rex opines. He’s leaning back in the office’s second guest chair, ankle propped up on the opposite knee, taking in the spectacle with a light in his eyes that’s half entertainment and half rapt consumption of all information the exchange will give him.

Rex has known, vaguely, that magic exists for a while now. But out of respect for the privacy of his mentor and good friend Professor Kenobi, Cody had refused to give any details. At least, any details beyond the minimum to get Rex to keep calm and quiet after he’d barged into their shared apartment one day with an outburst of “I think Anakin fucking Skywalker just broke the laws of physics.”

Cody had looked up, startled and silent, as Rex continued, “That or I’m hallucinating,” and then grew more and more astonished when it turned out Cody actually had an explanation for what he’d seen.

The explanation hadn’t had a lot of details. In fact, it had taken Rex a couple months to deduce that Professor Kenobi was the one Cody was talking about, and another month to be sure enough to confront Cody about it.

Cody had sighed, said he was surprised it had taken Rex that long, given that Ben was barely capable of being discrete about it. Rex had decided not to voice his thoughts on the fact that Professor Kenobi seemed perfectly capable of being discrete around everyone _else._

“Anything where you tell someone how much you’d hurt them if the circumstances were different is, in fact, a threat. Sorry, Padmé,” Rex continues.

Padmé looks at him for a second that feels much longer than it actually is. “I suppose you’re right, Rex,” she finally says. “My apologies to both of you.” She does sound genuine. Considering she’s a queen, Rex figures that’s pretty good—they probably don’t admit they’re wrong much more often than they apologize.

Although that said, he’s spent time with Padmé before. She’s always seemed down-to-earth—though given the myths about the Fae, maybe that’s for a different reason. Still, she’s sometimes aloof, occasionally odd in her reactions to things, but not some arrogant jerk looking down on all of the people around her. Maybe despite these really fucking weird revelations, not that much needs to have changed.

And as for Professor Kenobi—Ben— _Obi-Wan_ …well, he supposes he’ll see.

“I suppose having threatened you doesn’t help my case,” Padmé begins, “but I have offered you safe passage. I do not break my word. If you haven’t told the Jedi Council about Anakin, then I am the only one here who has access to the resources necessary to begin searching for him. My Court can shelter us while we search. Furthermore, if my people can conceal my survival as I coordinate a search in person, they can certainly keep your presence a secret—and Rex’s.”

“Oh, good,” Rex says, a smile pulling his mouth wider and wider. His teeth are bared—he knows from the complaints of his old army squadron that this is an intimidating look. “I was worried I’d have to force you to take me with you.”

Cody hadn’t been one of his squadron, but they’d been in Basic together before being assigned separately. They’ve been friends ever since.

Rex knows Ben/Obi-Wan/whatever well enough to know that look—the professor definitely wants to object. But he swoops over Rex with an assessing gaze, then swallows his comment.

Rex assumes that was him realizing that objecting would be futile.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes for just a second before he agrees to the plan, and that’s when Rex realizes that whether or not Obi-Wan realizes it, he and Padmé are okay with each other, at least for the moment. From everything the other two have explained, Obi-Wan’s seen too much action to be willing to leave an opening like that in front of a potential hostile.

And that’s a feeling that Rex knows all too well.

\--

Fae Courts, it turns out, are both absolutely gorgeous and absolutely fucking weird.

It’s been fifteen minutes since Rex, Ben/Obi-Wan, and Padmé/Amidala entered Padmé’s realm, and those two thoughts are the only conclusions that Rex has managed to come to. He first arrived at the second part first, after they entered through an _actual portal_ in the middle of a random tree, and has furthered that conclusion based on literally everything single thing he’s seen since.

The abrupt transition from the middle of the night to a haze-mired and glowing dawn? Weird. The fact that they’d gone from a tree in a tiny, scraggly DC park to the middle of a dense forest? Weird. The fact that all of the trees also glowed? Weird. The fact that Padmé suddenly looked inhuman again the second they crossed the portal? Well, Rex was slight more used to that, but still weird.

The fact that they were met by a group of six shining, effervescent beings, all of whom looked _exactly identical to Padmé?_ Really, really weird.

But both Obi-Wan and Padmé somehow seemed to think all of this was normal, and neither of them have looked ruffled since. Rex isn’t completely sure Obi-Wan isn’t faking, but at this point he’s just trying to go with the flow.

Doing so leads him and everyone else to a complex of buildings that are unlike anything Rex has ever seen. They’re grand, beautiful—the front one seems to be a palace, he thinks, but it’s not just a building, it’s physically growing out of the trees around it. The ash browns and cinnamon grays of the trees bleed slowly into glowing golds and silvers that seem to be actual metal with no clear transition point, only veins that seem to traverse from one zone of the other. The palace itself soars as tall as the trees—exactly as tall, Rex thinks—with nestled arches and curving domes that nonetheless come to sharp points that glow even brighter than the haze around them. He can see the palace through the fog perfectly; if anything, it’s haloed by the light. But sunbeams are made visible through the trees thanks to that fog, and as he attempts to look past the palace complex, all is shortly obscured.

Rex doesn’t realize that he’s frozen, or that everyone else has started ahead, until he hears a throat clearing and notice Obi-Wan standing right in front of him, somehow both tense and projecting serenity.

“You ever been here before, professor?” Rex finally forces his voice to work a few seconds after his legs.

“I thought you agreed to stop calling me professor,” Obi-Wan says, but the accompanying eyeroll is affectionate. “But no, I’ve never been to any of the Fae Courts except that of Titania, briefly. She’s queen of the Summer Court—one of the two biggest. But mostly the Fae prefer to meet on neutral ground.”

“Huh.” Rex’s neck is aching from his futile efforts to stare high enough. “And sorry, habit. Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan smiles. “It’s nice to hear someone else call me that, you know,” he says after a comfortable silence. “Most Jedi tend to think of the names we use in the Order as our real names—which unfortunately means the vast majority of our acquaintances are basically calling us by aliases.”

Rex is quietly and increasingly sure that being a sorcerer sounds incredibly lonely.

“Well then, Obi-Wan it is.” Rex smiles back. “Unless this counts as public?”

He hears a snort. “Rex, magical public is the opposite of public, as far as names are concerned.”

And before Rex gets a chance to respond, they’re caught up to Padmé and the others and standing at the palace’s front gate.


End file.
